


A Better You

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-26
Updated: 2009-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you could become a 'better' version of yourself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better You

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Huge thanks to [](http://elynittria.livejournal.com/profile)[**elynittria**](http://elynittria.livejournal.com/) for managing to somehow squeeze this into her hectic pre-Christmas schedule. Best present ever ♥  
> 
> 
> Inspired by a recent episode of _Dollhouse_. Not a crossover, although some key elements may sound familiar. Also influenced by a certain well-known Christmas tale. Happy Holidays!

**A Better You**  
  
  
House looked up sharply from his journal when he finally heard the footsteps, the key turning in the lock. It was about damn time. He wasn't the kind to name and claim his emotions as a general rule, but if he had, they would have comprised approximately three parts relief, one part concern, and six parts simmering fury.

"Hi honey, I'm home." Wilson's voice was light, almost cheerful, despite the evening gloom of the loft and the scowl of its lamp-lit inhabitant.

Three mornings ago, House had seen Wilson leave the apartment in a suit and tie, his normal workday attire. Now he was dressed casually, in jeans and sweatshirt, and carrying a backpack which he shrugged off his shoulder, slinging it onto the couch. While House didn't actually need further evidence that Wilson's disappearance had been thoroughly planned, it all added up to a final confirmation.

"So apparently I'm your keeper now, as well as your roomie," House said, when Wilson failed to produce a spontaneous confession. "I had to put a sign up in my office: 'I don't know where he is - go away'." This was an exaggeration, but he'd certainly considered it. "Even your assistant asked me, and I was under the impression you _paid_ her to keep track of you."

Wilson's smile faded, but he still looked calm, unruffled. That was slightly unexpected, but after all, he’d just had a three-day vacation. Not even House's most diligent prying had managed to uncover where he'd gone, but it must have been good. No doubt the effects would wear off in the next day or two. Sooner, if House had anything to do with it.

"But you know the one person who _didn't_ ask me?" he continued. "Cuddy. Which means she knew in advance. So you told _her_ you weren't going to be around for three days, but you didn't think I'd be interested? I could have starved to death."

A trace of the familiar exasperation had begun to creep into Wilson's face, and he came around and sat down on one side of the couch, diagonally across from House's armchair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Yes, because we have several frozen dinners, a full pantry, and six delivery places on speed dial. And I knew you'd ask her."

"Personal leave, she said. And that's apparently _all_ you told her. Which could mean anything from a dying grandmother in Maine to an impromptu road trip to DC with hookers and blow."

"And since I don't _have_ a grandmother in Maine…"

"I thought you could have at least invited me along."

"I'm sorry if you were worried," Wilson said sincerely.

Once again the tiny warning bell sounded in House's head. He hadn't been entirely sure what Wilson had been up to, but normally just the sheer guilt of having temporarily abandoned most of his responsibilities - House included - without prior notice should have been enough to put him on a hair trigger. Wilson did look apologetic, but that was all.

"So are you going to tell me? Or do I have to go through all your personal stuff and find out for myself?"

"Something tells me you already did."

"Yeah, but you're getting way too good at this." House gave up even pretending to be interested in the journal and thumped it down on a side table in frustration.

Wilson smiled at him again, which House found unnerving rather than comforting. Then Wilson reached over for the backpack, unzipped it, and extracted a manila envelope, already open at one end. He handed it over to House.

"You probably want to take a look."

House drew out the contents with a feeling of trepidation. He felt from experience that things that necessitated large manila envelopes were never good. There were a few loose sheets on top, accompanied by a thicker stack of paper stapled in the top left corner. The first page was a receipt, and House's eyes immediately widened as he glanced at the substantial total in the middle of the page. But that gave way to outright shock as he followed the page up to the header.

**A BETTER YOU™**  
The Person You Always Knew You Could Be

In that instant he understood everything - almost everything - but still he looked up disbelievingly.

"Wilson?"

"I'm fine, House," Wilson said, and he sat back on the couch, gesturing that House should look at the rest of the papers. His face was now half-cast in shadow. "In fact, I feel great. I just… I didn't want you to know. In case you freaked out and tried to… sabotage me. It's been known to happen."

House was shaking his head now, flicking through the pages as quickly as he could. It was all in here. A response letter to Wilson's initial inquiry, glossy brochure attached. Next, confirmation of his regular weekly appointments for psychotherapy and brain mapping, respectively. House had known Wilson was still seeing a shrink, as well as attending ongoing grief counseling; what he hadn't realized was that about three months ago Wilson must have dropped them in favor of ABY, while deliberately neglecting to rename the existing entries in his schedule.

Behind those were a few one-page reports, including confirmation of Wilson's suitability for treatment. And then the final notification of Wilson's 'transition' appointment, the one where they took a final archival copy of your troubled psyche and fed you back a brighter, shinier one. At a cost of tens of thousands of dollars, to be sure, but who can put a price on happiness?

The bulky item at the back was a forty-page report enumerating Wilson's measurable psychological characteristics in turn, and describing in detail the alterations that had been made to each. House knew that he'd be committing it to memory later on, but for now he'd seen more than he could handle for one evening. His hands were actually shaking as he began to stuff the whole pile back into the envelope, as though if he could no longer see the evidence, it would no longer exist.

ABY. The company that had seemingly risen out of nowhere with its startling patent on the neuro-normalizer. A technology breakthrough to take the edge off all your psychological problems, for those who could afford it. Plastic surgery for the psyche. Or as House had liked to call it, the zombie maker. He'd read all the literature when it had come out, had even joked to Wilson that it would clearly be the solution to all of House's own problems, except that he'd probably overload the equipment. But in truth it was something House knew he would never consider. Because if you weren't a collection of all your complexes and neuroses and addictions, then really, what were you? Who were you?

"Goddammit, _why_?" he said at last, to the Wilson who was apparently no longer Wilson. "Were you really that unhappy?"

House had known Wilson was still troubled, even without admitting how much House himself might have contributed to Wilson's state of mind. They'd been sharing the loft for a year, still on Doctor Nolan's orders, and it hadn't been entirely smooth sailing. Wilson had stopped short of drawing a line down the center of the apartment, but it had been a close thing for a while there. In addition Wilson was now one girlfriend further down the track, and House's first relapse had almost cost him his temporary home once again. It couldn't have been easy on Wilson. But in the end that was the kind of thing work and beer and anti-depressants were for. This was something else all together. This wasn't therapy, or counseling. This was more like murder, only the corpse was still walking around and pretending it was fine.

The man-who-was-now-Wilson was watching him intently. "You know I can't really feel exactly the same way I did before. But they make you write everything down in a letter. Before the treatment. To explain things… well, to yourself, I guess. Afterward. And no, it's not in there and no, you don't get to read it. But yeah, I was. Unhappy. I'm not, now."

"That's because you're programmed not to be!"

"I'm still who I always was, House. I'm still me. I remember… I remember everything. You… and Amber. Daniel. Kutner. It just doesn't - I still miss her, but I'm not consumed by it. I can worry about you and Danny without letting it take over my life. It's really no different from taking the pills. It's just… no side effects. Permanent."

"I'd call _this_ a fucking big side effect."

"What, exactly?" Wilson looked at him with a genuine concern that made House's throat close up even as he struggled to process his thoughts. Wilson held out his hands, palms up, open. "I've already apologized. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Would it make you feel better if I yelled at you for going through my stuff?"

"You know that isn't… this means you're not _you_ anymore."

"House."

"You're just a zombie."

Wilson made as if to reach out to him, and then sat back down again. "Okay, House. Two things. No, three, because the first one is important. Yes, I'm happier now. That doesn't mean I _can't_ feel anything else. What it does mean is that I can get past those feelings and move on. In some cultures this is known as wisdom, or maturity."

"Zombie," House repeated.

"Second, you're number one on my switchback list. It's in the report, there at the back somewhere. You, my parents, a couple of other people. If you really think I've changed, if you really think I'm not who I used to be and you just can't handle it, you can call them. Get me switched back to how I was before. But you have to give it a month, unless it's an emergency. And you're going to have to explain it to me when I get back, so it had better be good."

"Define emergency," House snapped, although some part of him was definitely relieved by the news. "And what if you won't go?"

Wilson ignored the first part of his question. "I put you on there because I trust you. Okay, I don't like the idea of switching back, but if you really want me to go, I'll go. I always figured you weren't quite selfish enough to want me to be miserable just because you are."

"Nice. Also, incredibly stupid. Or should I be calling that 'optimistic', now?"

Wilson shrugged, and got up, retrieving his backpack on the way. "Call it what you want. So, did you manage to flood the bathroom while I was away? Booby trap my bedroom, maybe?" He turned away and headed to the door of his room.

In actual fact, House hadn't done anything of the kind, but only because he hadn't been sure how worried he should be at Wilson's disappearance. That omission, together with Wilson's casual manner, was driving him crazy. He pushed himself up out of the chair, and followed Wilson to the doorway of his bedroom, one hand against the wall for support. He watched as Wilson stowed his backpack in the closet before extracting his pajamas from the dresser.

"You said three things," House demanded.

Wilson turned to him with an unexpected grin, and House had to concede that whatever the change had wrought, Wilson hadn't lost any of his manipulative qualities.

"It's getting late. Maybe it should wait until tomorrow."

"I don't think so. How do I know you're not going to murder me in my sleep?"

"I'm actually less likely to do that now. Before, it was a serious option."

It was obvious he was joking, but the feeling of unease was back again. Wilson in all his protestations was right, and at the same time he was wrong. He was clearly still Wilson in all the ways that mattered, and yet it was the subtleties that were throwing House off his game. The aura of calmness. The patience. The way he expected House to behave as though this situation were in any way reasonable. It was all too much, too soon, and maybe it would be better to wait until the morning. But it wasn't like he was going to get any sleep tonight anyway.

"Waiting."

Wilson dropped the pajamas on the bed and walked over to where House was standing. He was close, too close - House took an instinctive half-step backwards as he approached. Wilson reached out a hand to steady him, and then his mouth was on House's, pressing lightly and then gone. It happened so fast that House was left blinking and wondering if he were in fact hallucinating. Ideally, this entire evening.

"What the hell was that?" he said at last.

"The third thing."

"Okay, see, Wilson would never have done that," House said. "I'm declaring this an emergency." He turned back to the living room. Not that he was entirely serious, but he was definitely going to spend the next few hours going through that report. Especially the part concerning telephone numbers and office hours.

"House. Stop." Wilson's hand was on his arm again. It was warm, soft, and not at all undead. "I'm sorry. I should have waited. Until you'd had a chance to… adjust."

"Will you stop apologizing? That's freaking me out more than the… the other thing."

"But you're right. I wouldn't have done that before. I wanted to. Always. But I couldn't. Sometimes… it felt like it was just one thing after another, everything that could possibly happen to me. If I'd done it before, if I'd tried and you'd reacted… badly, I wouldn't have known what to do. I could never risk that. Not then."

House stood there and stared at him. Wilson's face, Wilson's voice, Wilson's body. Wilson. And the words were coming, and he was hearing them and yet not hearing them. His mind was swirling with too much input. It was true that Wilson was his best friend. Only friend. Whatever. But it wasn't like that, had never been. Only sometimes he'd thought that maybe, maybe there _could_ be something there. Under other circumstances. But House, too, had always had too much to lose.

"So… what's changed?"

"Obviously, I have," Wilson said lightly, before turning serious again. "The difference is that now… I think I'll be okay. Whatever happens. I'll manage."

"Yes, but what about me?" House insisted. "What am _I_ supposed to do about it?"

"That's up to you."

Again, the infuriating calmness. On the one hand, House was well aware this wasn't actually Wilson, so the entire thing was somewhat creepy and inappropriate. But god, it looked just like Wilson, sounded like him, and House had never realized until that moment how much he had wanted - had needed something like that from him. To know that Wilson could actually want him in that way. And whoever Wilson was now, his feelings were patently sincere. It was of course completely screwed up that he'd needed an entire personality transplant to express them, but since when had anything about their relationship ever been normal? Like Wilson purportedly was now. The irony did not escape him.

"You manipulative bastard," House said, torn between admiration and unease.

"Okay, maybe I wasn't expecting that." For the first time, Wilson did look unsure of himself. Maybe the stability was permanent, but some of the confidence had apparently been a front.

"If I ask you to switch back, you won't remember this, will you? Any of it."

"No," Wilson said flatly. "In theory they can reimprint with more adjustments, but that's like taking a copy of a copy. It's regarded as too risky, so it's always back to the original. Why? Does that make a difference?"

And then House was kissing him fiercely, pressing him back against the wall, with all the repressed relief and the anger and the longing rushing adrenaline-sharp through him, losing himself in Wilson's breath, Wilson's body. Wilson responded with a passion House hadn't known he'd possessed, overpowering in its intensity. House pushed him away at last, desperately needing to come up for air.

"I'm pretty sure this is wrong," House said, when he could speak.

"And yet I take it you're not sending me back to the shop just yet." There was a definite note of triumph in Wilson's tone.

"Maybe we should… give it a month."

  
***

  
The most annoying thing, House concluded after a couple of weeks, was that people were actually more observant than he'd always given them credit for. Wilson had always been 'nice'; that was what he specialized in, and so far as that part of his wiring went very little had changed. But it wasn't enough. Apparently, he was now also content as well, and that did not go unnoticed.

House had never perceived Wilson as miserable, exactly. Perhaps a shade melancholy at times, but with an essentially positive outlook on life. But Wilson being happy was a revelation. He didn't burst into song or dance along the corridors, but he lost the perpetually harassed air House had always associated with him. He smiled more, and with greater warmth. House's behavior was still met with appropriate commentary at times, but he no longer gave the full-blown lectures House had always hated. House's pilfered foodstuffs were simply rebought, his kitchen disasters met with equanimity. And while technically House didn't have a 'before' to compare it to, Wilson was just as giving in bed - uninhibited, imaginative, loving.

And people noticed. They talked. They _speculated_. Of course, as usual they were completely wrong. Maybe it was true that they were in a relationship, but it wasn't House who had made Wilson happy. _Wilson_ had made Wilson happy. His relationship with House was simply a byproduct. And it was unreasonable of House to begrudge him any of it, but some part of him did. It was weird. It was… unnatural.

"You know you're still a doormat," House said to him one night. They were lying in bed, turned inward to each other. While both preferred the right-hand side of the bed, Wilson had let House have it, because of his leg. It was a gesture entirely typical of their relationship to date. "That part hasn't changed. Only now you actually enjoy being one."

"And you're complaining?" Wilson's hand rested on House's under the covers, their fingers intertwining. His eyes were bright, amused.

"Not as such," House said. After the initial rush of their relationship had faded, he had struggled with the uneasiness that continued to plague him. "I just think… maybe you shouldn't be quite so _okay_ with it."

"It's what I wanted," Wilson said simply. "Before, there was so much about my life that I resented, and then I just felt guilty for resenting it. Having to be there for everybody. Having to always calm things down, smooth things over. Pretend everything was okay when it wasn't. But I couldn't seem to do anything else, whether I wanted to or not. So I figured… I might as well enjoy it."

The problem was that it sounded so perfectly logical, put that way. What was the alternative? Wilson could tell everyone to go to hell, give up his job and go live on the streets like his brother had. But then he'd probably still be just as miserable, and have a whole host of other problems to contend with into the bargain. He could try to pull back from his patients, his responsibilities, even from House, but then their silent, unmet needs would just haunt him endlessly until he relented and gave into them. Because that was who he was. It was better to just suck it up and accept it, which is exactly what he had done. But it was still somehow… wrong.

"I went through your report. You know you didn't have to be like this. You could have upped the assertiveness and turned down the empathy instead."

"You mean, and be more like you?" Wilson smiled.

"I hadn't… thought of it that way."

"There's only so much they can do, House. That's why it takes so long to do the background mapping. It turns out adult personality has fixed limits, some of them physiological. I could probably have done that, but it would have been a trade-off with the guilt, and the depression. We went over all the options. This way worked better."

"Maybe."

"So… are you still thinking I should switch back?"

"I don't know." House leaned over and kissed him, mostly because he could. "I haven't decided yet."

Further deliberations were postponed as Wilson reached for him then, clouding the issues as always with his mouth and his hands and the heat of him. And after a time House's doubts were temporarily abandoned in the still-unbelievable sensations of pushing deep inside of him, with Wilson's voice urging him on, Wilson's body shuddering beneath his. Only later, when Wilson was snoring gently beside him, House's arm draped possessively over his body, would they resurface.  
  
Otherwise, things were perfect - or as perfect as he'd never dared to hope for.

Two weeks later House pulled the glossy brochure from the pile, and punched the numbers into his phone.

  
***

  
Wilson was waiting by his bedside when he woke from the sedation, which immediately irritated House in some indefinable way. After all, it wasn't as though Wilson's physical presence would have had any significant bearing on the success of the procedure. But then Wilson had always been absurdly sentimental, especially lately.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine," House said, waving away the glass of water Wilson attempted to hand him. "It did work, right?"

"You didn't break the machinery, if that's what you're asking." Wilson smiled at him, but House was too busy re-evaluating his new mental state, knowing it was ultimately a futile exercise, but trying all the same. He still felt like himself, but then how could he expect any different? His leg radiated a low, dull ache, annoying but bearable, certainly nowhere as bad as he knew it could be.

He went on to rifle through his mental filing cabinet, ignoring Wilson's attempts at conversation; the languages seemed to be there, the medical knowledge intact, and he'd test himself on the piano when he got home. Of course there was no reason any of these things should have changed - they were acquired skills and memories, and should not have been susceptible to loss by psychological alteration, but he wanted to be sure.

"I have to be able to do my job," he'd told his ABY shrink, de Waal, a tall, steely-eyed woman who seemed to have abdicated her own personality in favor of an icy professionalism. "All the rest of it is secondary." However, that meant he'd left untouched all the traits that drove him to function in his usual way - the curiosity, which was fine, but also the obsessiveness, the arrogance, the ability to distance himself from his patients. There was only so much they could have done there anyway, she'd told him, with perhaps the faintest touch of amusement. What they could do was offer him more mood stability, which would in theory keep the pain, and in turn his medication, under control.

Even after three months of talk and therapy and making-up-his-mind, it hadn't been an easy decision. Nolan had been cautiously optimistic throughout, Wilson predictably supportive. In the end he'd decided it was no more risky than some of the other things he'd considered in the past. He'd slotted Wilson and his mom into his switchback list, and signed his old self away.

"So now what?" he said, as de Waal entered the recovery room.

"More tests," she said. "To prove to us and to yourself that your functioning is unimpaired. One more overnight stay, then you can go. Here's your letter."

She handed over the folded sheet of paper, nodded at Wilson, and left. They both looked at it for a moment.

"This is ridiculous," House said. "It's just a gimmick, anyway."

After the archival brain scan was taken, it was thoroughly checked through before a copy was taken for adjustments. This process took about a day, which would in effect simply disappear once the imprint took place, since neither personality would retain a memory of it. Patients were therefore encouraged to write a letter or keep notes during this time, perhaps to record any last-minute revelations. It was only a day. House couldn't imagine being stupid enough to bother writing something down, but then perhaps he over-estimated his old self. He unfolded the paper.

_Dear Greg,_

_Don't fuck this up._

_Love and kisses, Greg xxx_

"Cute," he said, handing it over to Wilson. Wilson took it obediently, but kept his gaze fully fixed on House.

"What?" House snapped.

"You're really feeling okay?" Wilson reached for his hand, and House let him take it, but with a certain impatience.

"I told you," he said. "I'm fine, the leg is fine. I can't wait to get out of here."

"So… nothing's changed?"

"Of course not. You were right. I'm exactly the same as I always was."

Wilson seemed to be waiting for something else, so House kissed him perfunctorily, and sent him on an scouting mission for lunch. It had gone well, he thought. He felt sharp, alive, energized. Wilson had left the letter lying on the nightstand, and House reached for it, balled it up, and tossed it overhand into the wastepaper basket in the corner. It was a perfect throw. There had really been nothing to be concerned about at all.

  
***

  
It took all of three weeks before Li quit. He walked into House's office one Wednesday afternoon spouting something about mutual respect, alternative job opportunities, and not having a medical specialty in putting-up-with-this-crap. House shook his head sadly. Li's previously laid-back demeanor had clearly been a front. Some people were so amazingly sensitive about laundry.

"You know you're meant to overthrow the capitalist running dogs, not surrender to them," House said. "The Great Helmsman would be sooo embarrassed for you right now."

"House, you know, and I know you know, but for the last time. I'm only 27. And my home province is in California. I hear it's even part of the Union now." He stalked out of the room.

"Whatever, dude," House called after him.

Predictably, Cuddy proved to be less than sympathetic over his departure.

"Not a chance. If you need another staff member you'll just have to get him back. And if you keep this up, Lorenzo will be next. I'm surprised she's put up with you this long already. Taub will just hire someone to put you under so he can sew your mouth shut permanently."

"Keep what up? It's not my fault they're becoming stupider over time."

"If they were really that stupid you wouldn't have hired them in the first place. House. " She shook her head, and then looked away, biting her lip. "This whole… ABY thing. I really don't think it was a good idea."

"Well then, maybe you should go cry on Wilson's shoulder and let me get on with saving patients. I don't see what it is with you two. I feel great. I feel better than I have in years. I'm getting by on minimum dose now. What is your problem with that?"

"This isn't about the pills, House. It's about… you."

"You're overreacting. It's not like I was Albert Schweitzer before. Not even close."

"No. But you weren't like this either. There was always… something else. Something more than just… solving the puzzles because they were there." She fiddled with the pen in her hands, looking troubled.

"What else is there?"

"I don't know. I just know that who you are now isn't who you were. Has Wilson asked you to switch back?"

"Yes. But I'm not going to. Technically, he could call the men in white coats and have me taken away involuntarily, but he won't. Too much of a coward."

Cuddy stared at him, hesitated, then visibly pulled herself together and went on. "I wasn't going to mention this yet, after Li, but… remember Mrs. Farrugia? She came to the clinic about two weeks ago suffering from stomach cramps. You told her she had a week to live, because you thought it would teach her an amusing lesson about hypochondria. Now she's suing the hospital for infliction of emotional distress."

"It's a miracle! She should be thanking me."

"But if we can show that you weren't really _you_ …"

"I was doing my job. No one got hurt. And next time she'll try the Ex-Lax first."

He turned to go, but stopped as Cuddy rose from behind her desk, looking pale but determined. "That's enough, House. Let me spell it out for you. You have to switch back. Otherwise - I can't keep you here."

"You can't fire me for doing my job. _I_ could sue you." House tried to stare her down, but for once she wouldn't budge.

"Go ahead."

  
***

  
"I can always get another job." House said a few nights later, through a mouthful of pot roast. "Hire myself out on a consulting basis until she comes to her senses."

"You are… aware of your record," Wilson said gently. He was seated on the couch next to House, but mostly seemed to be watching him eat.

House dismissed his objection with a wave. "There'll be something. Worst comes to worst, the government's full of crazies already."

There was murmured assent from Wilson, followed by a pause. "You're really not going to do it, are you?"

"Get a new job?" House said, deliberately misunderstanding. "Of course I am."

"You know what I meant, House. Isn't it clear enough that you've changed? And not in the good way?"

House stopped eating for a moment in favor of his glass of juice.

"But this is what you've always wanted, isn't it?" he said, after a few noisy gulps. "I sleep better, I'm not taking so many pills. Sure, maybe I annoy people, but that's nothing new."

Wilson shook his head.

"You were never like this. Or maybe you were, but there was something else there too, underneath. Compassion. Some kind of… humanity."

This wasn't the first time Wilson had ventured a similar opinion, and it was really starting to get boring now. People always talked about 'humanity' as though it were a good thing, but in his experience humans as a species were boring, irritating, and stupid. Humanity was vastly over-rated.

"You've been talking to Cuddy, haven't you?" House said. "She said almost exactly the same thing. Well, whatever it was, it was obviously superfluous."

Wilson shot him a pained look, then pushed himself up off the couch. "So I guess that makes me superfluous too, doesn't it?"

House glanced up at him in genuine surprise. "What do you mean?"

Wilson hesitated, but only for a moment. "Maybe you used to need me, House, but you don't anymore. I can see that now. You'll get by, whatever happens."

For the first time since his transition, House felt a twinge of something resembling uncertainty. Maybe it was true that he didn't need Wilson now, or at least not like he used to, but he'd taken it for granted that Wilson would always be there regardless. This was not the way it was supposed to go. At the same time, several random snippets from Wilson's past weeks of conversation fell neatly into place.

"So, did you have anyone _particularly_ needy in mind? For instance, Selina in pediatrics? With the sick mom and the disappearing boyfriend?"

It was almost worth it to see Wilson wince, as long as House didn't consider the implications too deeply.

"I said I'd… take her out to dinner."

"So that's why you haven't been eating."

"I'm touched that you noticed."

Wilson moved around the room then, collecting his wallet and keys, his jacket from the coat stand. He came back and kissed House on the cheek. "Bye, House."

House continued chewing even as the door closed behind him. When he was done, however, he pushed the plate away and settled back on the couch to contemplate. He thought he should feel _something_ , what with Wilson having as good as announced he was leaving. But at the same time it made perfect, rational sense. Wilson needed to be needed; that was his pathology. And while House would miss the cooking and the sex, there was nothing there that takeout and hookers couldn't fix easily enough. Even though admittedly some of the rougher games he liked to play with Wilson nowadays would probably cost him extra. So, House would deal with it. He would cope. But yet there was some small, quiet voice that insisted that this wasn't going to work. He just couldn't put a name to it.

The whisky and the Vicodin bottle both remained untouched. But after a while, he pulled on his leathers and his helmet and took the bike out, south along the endless highway, thinking of nothing, and no one. He stopped once for gas, and rode on. Eventually, when all the lights around him began to blur into one, he pulled up outside a cheap motel, paying cash. He slept well, as always. In the morning, he found a diner for breakfast, and headed home.

His dinner plate was exactly where he'd left it, and neither of the beds had been slept in.

He looked around the empty loft, and knew already that this could easily become his life, from one year to the next. But he had also realized that he didn't want it to be. He did in fact need Wilson, not in the dramatic, showy, hearts and flowers sense, but as one of the fundamentals of his existence, one of the things that drove him onward even when he wasn't sure where he was going. He could in theory survive perfectly well without Wilson, except that if he remembered correctly Wilson had been the main reason he had done this to himself in the first place. On some level he had to admire a man who could manage to manipulate him this adroitly without even being there.

He remembered the letter he'd written and disposed of so cavalierly. _Don't fuck this up._ Maybe he had been smarter than he'd given himself credit for. Because the evidence was starting to suggest he might have been wrong after all. He went through it all over again, testing the strength of his conclusions, and then reached for the phone.

"Wilson?"

At least Wilson had picked up, but House's greeting had been met by a long silence. He could hear a radio playing in the background, and running water.

"Is everything okay?" Wilson said at last. His voice was low, cautious.

If things had been _okay_ , House wouldn't have bothered calling. But for once he refrained from pointing that out.

"You win," he said, as though conceding a game of cards instead of his entire existence. "I'll switch back."

There was another long pause, during which he could virtually see Wilson rechecking his hearing. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"That's… great. What made you change your mind?"

House ignored the question. "But after that… I want you to switch back too."

Silence. Then there was the low murmur of a woman's voice, and the sound of Wilson making muffled apologies.

"You want me to…" Wilson said, when he was done. "Why? Are you sure about this?"

"I know I didn't say anything… before… but that's part of the reason I signed up to begin with. Being with you was… it was _good_ , but it wasn't _right_. I thought… maybe it was just me. Maybe if I fixed _me_ , it would all fall into place. But I was wrong about that. I was wrong. Do you understand?"

Again, nothing. House was torn between irritation and the certain knowledge that he had to make Wilson understand, any way he could. He closed his eyes and forced himself to stillness.

"Wilson. Please. I need you. And I need you to do this for me."

There was a sharp indrawn breath, and then another long pause. House waited.

"Okay," Wilson said softly, and hung up.

  
***

  
This time he was there, watching them wheel Wilson in from the transition room, waiting as he slowly drifted up from sleep, putting his book to one side when Wilson's eyes began to flicker open.

"Surprise," he said cheerfully, when Wilson was able to focus. The old Wilson, the one who had lived and died and been born again. Only he wouldn't know that yet, of course.

When he realized, Wilson stared at him in foggy disbelief. "Oh, god. How did you find out where I was?"

"I didn't," House said. "It's complicated."

In his current state, it took Wilson a minute to process. Then he examined House's face more carefully.

"You switched me back," he said. His voice was heavy with fatigue and disappointment.

House reached forward then, and took his hand, squeezing it gently as Wilson's eyes widened in surprise.

"More complicated than that."

He watched as the implications of his gesture sank in. Wilson's gaze never left House's face as he struggled upright into a sitting position, not letting go.

"How long has it been?" Wilson asked. "That I was… him."

"About… almost six months."

"I - He - hit on you, didn't he?" Wilson said at last.

House nodded solemnly.

"But you didn't freak out."

"Nope." House thought about it, and then corrected himself. "Not for long, anyway."

House leaned forward then, bringing his face closer to Wilson's, but at the last moment he hesitated. He had memories of having kissed Wilson hundreds of times, and had done many more things to him besides, but in a way it was the first time all over again, only without Wilson's certainty to bolster them both. In fact, Wilson was still staring at him disbelievingly, which wasn't exactly helping the mood. House took a deep breath and kissed him anyway, feeling Wilson tense against him before offering a small, tentative response.

"So then… does this mean we're… together?" Wilson looked down at their clasped hands and then back up into House's face.

"Well, I am." House's mouth quirked slightly at the corners. "I guess you'll have to make up your own mind."

"But then why…"

"Later," House said.

"I want to know _what happened_."

House bowed his head for a moment, and then looked back up at Wilson. "You were wrong. Turns out I _am_ selfish enough to want you to be miserable just because I am."

"Ah. Were you… were we… miserable?"

"Not exactly."

For once, he almost welcomed Wilson's huff of exasperation. "House!"

"It…"

"I get it. It's complicated." Wilson's frustration was replaced by a sudden dismay. "Hold on. House. You… you are still _you_ , aren't you?"

"Well, I am _now_."

"I… see," Wilson said.

They sat in silence for a long moment as Wilson appeared to piece things together to his own satisfaction. Then he reached out to touch House's face, running his hand down his cheek to the jaw line as though checking House was solid, real.

"When I first went to them, "he said, "I never… expected..."

"Yeah, well, neither did I."

They both looked up quickly as Wilson's ABY shrink walked in. Simpson or Sampson or whatever the hell the guy's name was. His eyes flicked over them both emotionlessly, and then he dropped a small padded envelope on Wilson's bed and walked out.

"I think they're actually all androids around here," House whispered conspiratorially, reaching for the package.

Wilson smiled wanly at him. "Of course. That would explain a lot."

"Here," House said. "Apparently anything over a week warrants a DVD. You can watch you explaining the whole thing to yourself. Probably at great length, knowing you."

"So, do I get to see… yours?"

"You wouldn't want to. It was all mostly abuse, anyway." House grimaced at the memory of the stupidities his other self had accused him of.

Wilson looked down at the envelope in his hands, and then at House again. The dazed look had finally worn off a little, and his eyes had turned dark and serious.

"You know it's never going to work out like this, House. Not in a million years. Not with the way I am. The way you are."

"Wow, and I thought I was meant to be the pessimist." It wasn't as though House didn't have his own doubts on the subject, but it wasn't going to stop him. "So do you want to try this or not?"

"Yes," said Wilson slowly, and then with more conviction. "Yes, of course I do. I just… I have no idea what I'm doing. It's not like either of us has ever been good at this."

"I know. But it's too late for that now."

House leaned in to claim another kiss, and this time Wilson was at least a willing, if awkward, participant. It was a long way from the confidence, the passion, that House remembered so vividly, but he could only hope that it was all still in there somewhere and would resurface. In time.

"And besides," House continued, as lightly as he could, "I've heard that sometimes... people can change."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Monkey's Paw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835954) by [phipiohsum475](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475)




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